


A Momentary Madness

by tres_mechante



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Manipulations, Paranoia, Vague reference to implied child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tres_mechante/pseuds/tres_mechante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anger – well, obsession and homicidal rage, really – bound Sherlock and Moriarty together, and only death can release them. The problem is that each one simply refuses to die. John Watson pov</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Momentary Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2011 edition dark_fest. Prompt: Why won't you just die? Supernatural help, dogged determination or something else completely – why can't character X get rid of character Y quite as easily as they might hope?
> 
> Caution: Ambiguous ending
> 
> Title is from quote: "Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you." [Horace, ancient roman poet, 65BC-8BC]
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks and acknowledgements at end of story.

John stepped out of the clinic and frowned at the black car waiting at the curb. He wanted nothing more than to go home, but knew Mycroft would not be put off so he squared his shoulders and headed to the open door.

Of course, Mycroft was not inside. Neither was possibly-not-Anthea, which was rather peculiar; she was always in the car, even if she didn't talk to him. The privacy screen was up so he couldn't even talk to the driver, not that anyone ever talked back.

Resigned, John sat back and watched the passing scenery. He idly wondered which warehouse he was being taken to this time.

He was so wrapped up in wondering what Mycroft could possibly want to discuss that it took him a while to realize the car was not heading for any of the industrial areas. In fact, they appeared to be leaving the city altogether.

Given Sherlock's vaguely worded comments about Mycroft's behind-the-scenes activities, John began to get more than a little nervous. Before full born panic could set in, his mobile rang. He frowned at the text message.

JW  
DELICATE SUBJECT MATTER.  
NEED SECURE LOCATION.  
MEAL PREPARED. MH

Well. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but hoped there would be alcohol of some type; he had a feeling he'd need it. Of course, what he really wanted was his bed. Three days of double shifts had left him knackered, never mind recovery from having a building collapse on top of him.

The mobile rang again as another message arrived.

YOU HAVE 57 MINUTES TO SLEEP. DO SO. MH

Honestly. The Holmes' were starting to spook him more than just a little.

With a shrug he made himself comfortable and let the motions of the car rock him to sleep. If Mycroft was spiriting him out of the city for a chat, then John would be well served by being alert when they met.

"We're almost there, Doctor Watson."

John jumped slightly at the voice. The partition between the front and back of the car was open, but once he sat up, it slid closed once more. He ran quick fingers through his hair in hopes of restoring order and looked at the passing scenery. Wherever he was, it appeared to be a private estate.

The car slowed to take a turn and John could see a deceptively simple cottage just past a small bridge. He had no doubt the interior would prove to be more elaborate than the outside.

Once the car glided to a stop, the cottage door opened to reveal not-Anthea. She waited for him to exit the vehicle and approach. Without a word, she led him through the cottage to a conservatory beyond the kitchen.

Mycroft stood to greet John, an action that unnerved him. “John, thank you for coming.”

John sat when Mycroft pulled out a chair for him. “I wasn’t aware I actually had a choice,” he said, nervously toying with the cutlery. He looked over the assorted dishes on the table. “As much as I, uh, appreciate the effort you’ve obviously gone through –that is to say your brother will likely be a little nervous if I’m not back soon.”

Mycroft nodded. “He has kept a fairly close eye on you since the unfortunate incident.” He prepared a plate, piling it with a variety of delicacies, and handed it to John. “However, Sherlock will be spending the evening at the morgue – bodies found riding the Tube, no obvious cause of death – where he won't be able to walk away without satisfying his curiosity.”

A horrible suspicion began to take shape. "Where did those bodies--" He was cut off when his mobile rang.

JW  
FASCINATING PUZZLE.  
DON'T WAIT DINNER.  
SH

YOU ARE NOT HOME.  
WHERE ARE YOU?  
SH

"Just tell him you've met up with a friend at the pub; someone on leave from service, perhaps, only in town for a short time." Mycroft glanced at him while quickly texting.

John shook his head and hesitantly responded.

SH  
CATCHING UP WITH ARMY MATE.  
WON'T WAIT UP.  
PLAY NICE WITH OTHERS!!  
JW

 

IDIOTS NOT WORTH EFFORT.  
DO NOT EAT BISCUITS IN YELLOW TIN.  
LACED WITH CYANIDE.  
SH

John tucked the mobile back into his pocket as Mycroft did the same. He had the oddest feeling that if Sherlock went looking, someone from his old regiment would vouch for dinner at a pub.

Mycroft smiled, sort of. "Do eat up before it gets cold, John – may I call you John? I don't recall ever asking your permission before. You don't mind, do you?"

John wasn't sure what to make of this, but shrugged lightly. "No, it's fine." He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. The food really was exquisite.

Much to John's surprise, Mycroft made small talk during their meal, and by the time coffee was poured afterwards, John almost felt mellow.

With a regretful sigh, he pushed away his dessert plate and rested folded arms on the table. "Now what was so top secret you had to drag me out of the city to talk? Thank you for dinner, by the way,” he added, ever mindful of his manners.

"A pleasure," said Mycroft as he motioned for John to join him in the lounge. He poured two snifters of brandy and handed one to John before taking his own seat. "There is no easy way to say this, I'm afraid."

"Straight out would be my preference," said John. He sat back in an attempt to look relaxed, but in truth his muscles were drawn tighter than a bow.

"All the bodies recovered from the pool have finally been identified. Unfortunately some were damaged badly enough to make identification… problematic."

Something in Mycroft's voice made him twitchy. "But-but they were all identified, right?"

That Mycroft actually gulped rather than sipped his drink had John leaning forward anxiously. "Yes. Yes, everyone has been identified and their movements accounted for in the hours prior to the explosion." His gaze held John's steadily. "Moriarty was not amongst them."

"But that's – no, there's been some mistake. Mycroft, I saw him – his head smashed open by the falling wall. He's dead – he has to be."

Mycroft nodded. "That body was recovered, but he isn't, or wasn't, James Moriarty." He held up his hand to stop John's protest. "Everything comes back to one Jimmy Callum Murtaugh, a low-level employee in the I.T. department of St. Bart's."

"But…" John tossed back the remainder of his drink, coughing slightly at the sudden burn. "No, I don't…you're certain?"

"Believe me, John; I spared no expense or resource in confirming this." He refilled John's glass and then his own. "As far as we are able to ascertain, Mr. Murtaugh had no criminal record, other than one relatively minor drug related charge when he was 15 – his first and only offence."

John deflated and sank back in his chair. "When Sherlock first entered the pool, Moriarty – or whoever – had me step out and repeat whatever I was told,” said John, not sure why he was saying it.

"He used you as a puppet. It stands to reason Mr. Murtaugh was likewise being controlled."

"Yeah, well, he was a willing part of it – very enthusiastic even," muttered John as he absently rubbed his cheek.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "What exactly did he do?"

"What? Oh, nothing, nothing important. You know how it is; I resisted, he insisted." Noting the other man's look, he said impatiently, "For godsake Mycroft, I had worse in the field."

Eventually, Mycroft settled back and took a controlled sip of his drink. "I'm sure you did."

It did not take long before John felt compelled to break the silence. "So, now what? And more to the point, why are you telling me? Shouldn't Sherlock know about this – or does he already know?"

"The report won't be available until noon tomorrow. As to telling you…I don't despise you, John Watson. You are reasonably intelligent, very brave and have the peculiar ability to actually get along with Sherlock." He smirked at John's mock bow. "He's been very protective of you of late. And that's with believing Moriarty to be dead. When he finds out Moriarty is still alive – and he'd been duped by an imposter – well, I fear my dear brother's mental state will…be affected."

"You think he's going to lose it," summed up John. "He's going to be even more protective, paranoid, and difficult to live with."

"Succinctly put, but essentially correct, to say nothing of his obsession with finding Moriarty.”

"Well, fuck."

"Indeed."

"So what can we do?"

"We do nothing, John. I have allocated resources to go over Mr. Murtaugh's background with a fine-toothed comb. Somewhere in his past is a meeting with James Moriarty."

Mycroft's mobile rang and he began texting someone. John let his head rest against the back of his chair. This was all too much to take in, especially on so little sleep. Of course, the alcohol was not helping, either.

"You look about done in. I'd offer you a bed for the night but Sherlock would not be happy about returning to an empty flat."

His eyes snapped open, and he was appalled to realize he'd drifted off. "Sorry, that was rude." He scrubbed his face with both hands. "Been a long few days."

"Double shifts, I know." He waved toward the hallway. "You might want to splash water on your face before heading back."

That sounded like a bloody brilliant idea. Tired as he was, however, he did not dawdle.

Mycroft, eyes on his mobile, walked him to the car. As John opened the door, Mycroft said, "Freddie."

That came out of nowhere. "Pardon?"

"Freddie Corcoran, the chap you had dinner with this evening. Should Sherlock inquire."

"Which he will."

"Which he will," agreed Mycroft. "You do remember Freddie?"

"Of course. Fellow doctor, wicked sense of humour, has a bizarre fondness for Harlequin novels and zombie films." John thought for a moment. "Last I heard he was engaged to his childhood sweetheart."

"That's over. She doesn't want to be a military wife and he's decided to re-up."

"Sorry to hear that," said John as he got in the car. He looked the other man in the eye. "You'll keep me informed." It wasn't a question.

The answering "You'll look after my brother" was also not a question.

"Find him, Mycroft."

The door closed and the large black car pulled away and headed for the city.

 

Morning came much too soon. Despite his best intentions, he'd ended up waiting for Sherlock to get back from St. Bart's. John had just nodded off in his chair when the door burst open and his flat mate the whirlwind blew through the door.

Sherlock had been in such an upbeat mood that John hadn't the heart to simply leave him and go up to bed. Unfortunately that meant John and his bed were not reunited until after 4 a.m.

And now some idiot was hammering and making the most god awful noise - in his room. At that realization, John forced his eyes open just enough to see whoever it was he'd have to shoot.

"Ah, good, you're awake."

Sherlock Bloody Holmes stood by the bedroom window with a hammer and the tin of assorted nails. He pulled out a nail and pounded it into the window sash.

"Dare I inquire what you think you're doing?" asked John hesitantly.

"Home security. One can't be too careful," said Sherlock as he attempted to open the window.

John sat up and tried to focus on his friend's recent bout of oddness. "So nailing the window shut…"

"Will keep out any intruders," said Sherlock, turning to face him with a very pleased look on his face. "Now, don't give me that look, John. We live in uncertain times and should take every precaution. It's the sensible thing to do."

"If we're expecting the zombie apocalypse, then yes." He swung his legs off the bed and stood, shoving his feet into slippers. "Won't do much good if the flat catches fire or someone tosses in a bomb, though."

Sherlock looked nonplussed by this and turned back to the window, frowning.

"Tea?" asked John on his way past.

"What? Oh, yes. Thank you."

John headed for the kitchen, aware of Sherlock following him a few minutes later. When he finally entered the kitchen, John set a cup of tea on the table next to the dish of assorted animal teeth.

Sherlock nodded his thanks. "I was surprised to see you up when I got in."

"I'd got in rather late myself; was still winding down when you arrived."

"How was your visit with…Henry, did you say?"

John thought Sherlock needed to work on his nonchalance. "I didn't say, actually. But it was Freddie Corcoran. We served together for a bit, stayed in touch," he shrugged.

"I don't recall you mentioning him."

"Come now, Sherlock, surely you don't believe you know absolutely everything about me?"

"No, of course not, John," said Sherlock, pulling out his mobile.

John wasn't fooled for a moment. "It was a chance meeting and we got together last night because he was shipping out again very soon. It was just the usual catching up on things. Would you like to ask Mycroft if he can get you CCTV feeds to verify it?"

Sherlock suddenly – guiltily? - pocketed is mobile. "Don't be absurd." He began fussing with his tea cup.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, what brought on the quest for home security?" He got up to make some toast, adding an extra slice to allow for Sherlock nicking his breakfast.

"We live in trying times, John, you know this. It seems prudent to…" he trailed off when he looked up at John. With a heavy sigh he grumbled, "If you must know, I've had a feeling of impending…something."

"Something."

"The final forensics report is due today."

"Ah. I'm surprised you didn't hack in and get an advance copy."

"I tried." Sherlock sat back with a sulk. "My usual sources were unable to obtain a copy."

"You mean Mycroft refused to provide you with it."

Sherlock's glare could have blistered paint.

John relented. "Fine. Tell me why you think there'll be trouble."

"Because no matter what happens, he always comes back."

John frowned. "He? You mean Moriarty?"

"Yes," Sherlock all but hissed. He suddenly got up from the table and went to his sofa where he sat with knees drawn up tight to his chest.

Things were beginning to make sense to John. "How long?"

"What?"

As much as he wanted to yell, John kept his voice steady. "How long has this…feud been going on? And don't deny it. Now that I think about it, everything points to a personal vendetta. Whatever this so-called game was, it's been going on a while."

"Don't be so melodramatic," he scoffed. "Middle school is often fraught with rivalries, especially amongst the intellectually gifted – or in his case, the non-imbecilic."

John was momentarily startled that whatever this was went back that far. "Alright, yes, duelling egos; I can see that. What changed?"

"Carl."

"Who is Carl?"

"Was. A fellow student – Carl Powers. Not particularly intelligent, but…he was an okay chap." Sherlock's eyes took on a meditative look, as though he were focusing somewhere else. "He looked like me. A bit. So I was told – never really saw it myself but, apparently there was a strong resemblance."

John shifted minutely, bracing for whatever would come next.

"Scholastic competition was augmented by other challenges of wit and intellect – usually resulting in public humiliation for the loser."

Practical jokes, John mentally translated, although he remained silent.

"Occasionally, I would be called to account for something he had done. It did not foster good relations, as I’m sure you can appreciate." He sighed. "Poor Carl was caught in the middle."

After a moment, he continued.

"I was not a terribly athletic child and had a strong dislike for swim classes. My body was not as…well developed, shall we say as many of my classmates. Those classes were unbearable, knowing others were looking, comparing, mocking," he snarled that last word. "With permission, I was able to practice after regular classes. The instructor was a kindly soul and allowed me to have extra time outside regular hours. I realize now he may have had an unnatural fascination with my immature form, but he never bothered me and I could practice in peace."

John tried to parse the bits of information revealed and set some of it aside for future discussion.

"One evening, I had to serve detention rather than swim. Honestly! Just because I corrected the chemistry teacher I got hauled up to the headmaster for insubordination. Well, I wasn't about to apologize for being right, so I was sentenced to detention – and bloody boring it was, too."

John couldn't help but smile slightly at the image of a young Sherlock boldly correcting one of his teachers. He had no doubt Sherlock had been less than tactful about it.

"Where does Carl come in to this?"

"Carl…Carl took my place in the pool. The swim instructor, shall we say, enjoyed his company on a regular basis. When I called to tell him I could not be there, he apparently invited Carl to take my place."

John felt a knot form in his gut as he wondered exactly what went on between Sherlock and the instructor. But again, he held his peace. There would be time later to probe further.

"And Moriarty?"

"Ah yes, Moriarty. He was jealous of the extra attention I received – such a crude useless emotion, jealousy. His intent was to…well, I'm not sure what his intentions were other than to strike out at me." Sherlock jumped up and began pacing. "It was a bloody prank, John. A foolish prank that went wrong and Carl died because he wasn't clever enough to figure out the trap and get away. It was ruled an accidental drowning."

Sherlock's contempt showed clearly as he began ranting against idiotic blind officials who couldn't see, couldn't understand what had truly happened.

"Sherlock, what about Moriarty?"

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop. "Nothing was ever proven, although I doubt I shall ever forget his disappointment that I was still alive."

"The two of you have been going at it ever since, then?"

"Minor skirmishes until we left school. I didn't see him again until the incident at the pool.”

"But you were bandying his name about before that," protested John.

"Well, of course I kept track of him. His mind is almost as keen as my own, but he is generally lacking in any real imagination. It's been embarrassingly easy to see his hand in assorted questionable ventures." Sherlock flopped down in John's usual chair. "I admit the bombs were…unexpected. He's never shown any inclination toward such violent public displays."

"Well, that explains it, I suppose."

Sherlock's gaze snapped to him. "Explains what?"

"Why this felt so personal. It is personal. The rest of us just happened to get caught in the middle, like poor Carl."

Sherlock's mobile rang and he fumbled it free of his pocket. "Finally!" He jumped up and headed for his bedroom. "Get dressed, if you're coming. That bloody report is finally in. Lestrade has asked us to come to the Yard immediately."

John was glad Sherlock had already left the room. He had a feeling he looked as sick as he suddenly felt.

 

The next few weeks were as difficult as John feared they would be. From the moment Lestrade informed them that Moriarty was not among the bodies recovered, Sherlock had gone into a frenzy of activity. He ate and slept even less than usual, was obsessive about knowing where John was at all times - and he talked nonstop. At first, John tried to get Sherlock to settle down, but he quickly discovered that his friend's rambling was actually informative.

He learned that the GPS on his phone broadcast his location nonstop to Sherlock.

He learned that Sherlock was willing to revert to drugs, licit and otherwise, in an effort to give himself an edge.

He learned that Sherlock and Moriarty really had tried to kill each other for years – a fact that made the other things he learned seem unimportant in comparison.

Three weeks to the day after Lestrade broke the news about Moriarty, Sherlock disappeared.

John woke one morning to find a message on his mobile.

JW  
NEW LEADS  
KEEP TO ROUTINE  
ALL MUST APPEAR NORMAL  
THE GAME IS ON!  
SH

John quickly got up, not even stopping for slippers as he hurried through the flat. He looked everywhere but Sherlock was not to be found. His coat and scarf were still hung to the door and experiments littered assorted surfaces in the kitchen.

Everything as though Sherlock were home. But he was not.

He flopped tiredly into his chair but jumped up with a yell. He looked down at the seat to see the skull grinning at him. John picked it up and held it so he could look it straight in the eye sockets.

"Be glad you didn't actually bite my arse or I'd chuck you out with the rubbish, no matter what Sherlock would say."

Warning issued, he resumed his seat, albeit a little more cautiously. Where could his mad friend have gone? What kind of lead could have turned up? Moriarty obviously intended to kill Sherlock – and the intent was most likely reciprocated given the disjointed ramblings of the past few weeks.

Three days later, he was still mulling over his friend's odder-than-usual behaviour. John slouched down in his chair, the skull resting on his chest, and considered the possibilities. The answer seemed to be in the past incidents Sherlock mentioned during his monologues.

He briefly glanced at his computer, but quickly discarded that idea; he was not a hacker and hadn't a hope in hell of accessing records from…wherever. He could go to Lestrade, but was fairly certain Sherlock would not thank him for involving Scotland Yard in his personal business.

John sat up quickly. Of course! "Mycroft," he said to the skull and got up, tossing the skull back on the chair seat with an apology. He was almost out the door before realizing he was still in his pyjamas.

Finally dressed and out the door, John sent a quick series of texts to Mycroft and set off down the street. He had no idea where he was going, but figured Mycroft would find him all the same. His mobile rang.

FERNANDO BAKERY  
GET 3 CHOCOLATE CROISSANTS  
MH

Fernando's was a little-known bakery that never seemed to have any customers. Anderson had once commented that he thought the business was a front for illegal gaming or drugs. John didn't care; the pastries really were second to none.

Croissants purchased, he stepped out of the shop just as a big black car pulled up. He opened the door and got in with a nod to Mycroft and not-Anthea-but-might-be-Greta.

He held out the bag. "Croissant?"

They had barely set out on a tour of the city when Mycroft's assistant handed him a pad of paper and a pen. He was instructed to write down everything he could remember about interactions Sherlock and Moriarty had over the years.

His protest of "But Sherlock says they hadn’t seen one another until what happened at the pool" was ignored with an exasperated "Clearly they have been keeping track of one another over the years."

John settled back and began to jot down every detail he could recall from Sherlock's occasionally incoherent ramblings.

Mycroft studied the notes. "Yes, well, your handwriting certainly does live up to the stereotype of a doctor." Before John could protest, Mycroft handed the list over to his assistant. "Every detail."

She barely spared him a glance. "Of course."

The car came to a stop and John figured that was his cue to leave. However, could-be-Greta opened the door and stepped out, closing it firmly behind her. John looked in confusion at Mycroft.

"Are you quite certain about Carl's death?"

John frowned. "Well, yes, I mean as certain as I can be. The information came from Sherlock after all."

"Indeed." Mycroft stared at some point beside John's head before focusing on him once more. "And he went to school with Moriarty."

"So he said. Look, Mycroft what are you getting at?"

"As much as it pains me to say, I'm not certain." He fiddled with the pen still in his hand. "Perhaps I'll know more when all the reports come in."

John considered the man across from him carefully. "Surely you knew what was happening at school – with Sherlock I mean."

"Are you referring to the rivalries, the mischief and insubordination, or the swimming instructor?" He glared at John. "I was away to university at the time. Sherlock never talked about the classes or the other students or the staff. He was always one for solving his own problems."

"His idea or someone else's?"

The resulting glare should have left holes on the upholstery. "Do not begin a discussion of family dynamics unless you are certain you want to participate fully."

John shut his mouth.

On their second lap through the city, by John's reckoning, Mycroft pulled out a thermos of coffee and poured two cups. He pulled out a croissant and offered one to John. The remaining one was secured in the bag and set aside. The silence was almost companionable by the time the car slowed to a stop near New Scotland Yard.

Just as John reached for the door handle Mycroft said, "If you – if you hear from Sherlock…"

"I'll text your right away."

"Thank you. And I will return the favour, you have my word."

Gentleman's agreement in place, John got out of the car. He didn't have any answers, but for some reason he felt a little less alone.

John startled when his mobile rang. The caller ID showed it was Lestrade. "Oh bugger," he muttered as he hit answer.

Immediately, Lestrade started with the questions. "Why isn't Sherlock answering? I've been trying to reach him all day."

"I'm fine, thank you, Inspector. And you?"

"Don't be cute," snapped Lestrade. "Why is he ignoring my texts? What's going on?"

"He's engaged in a…project at the moment and he's not talking or texting to anyone – even me."

"Oh. Well, it's your expertise I could use at the moment. Could you find time to stop by in the next day or two?"

John looked up at the sign for New Scotland Yard. "As a matter of fact I'm free at the moment," he said, walking toward the main entrance. "It's been a rather peculiar day so far. Any chance of a cuppa when I get there?"

"I'm sure something can be arranged. When can I expect you?"

"About five minutes should do," said John, hanging up. He wondered, not for the first time, exactly what Mycroft wasn't telling him.

 

John set his cup down and settled back to study the file more closely. He recognized most of the chemical compounds listed, especially in the combination presented in the lab reports. But the knowledge was only in the context of a tiny corner of Afghanistan that no one was supposed to know about.

Carefully considering his words, John said, "I recognize one of these as having psychotropic properties – a walk-in patient was having side effects and it took us…too long to sort it out. He died before we found the answer."

Lestrade got up and closed the office door. "Look, this is just between you and me – no one else knows about any of this."

John set the file down. "What exactly are you trying to say?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

Lestrade returned to his seat and picked up a pen, tapping it nervously against the desk. "Apparently when the lab tried to research the pharmaceuticals, they were shut out – classified type thing. Of course, I tried to get hold of Sherlock because he has the damnedest network for getting hold of information." He tossed down the pen. "Less than one hour ago I received a text from an unknown number. It simply said 'John Watson'. What do you make of that?"

John shrugged one shoulder. "Not a clue. Perhaps someone thought I'd be able to get hold of Sherlock for you?"

Lestrade handed him a single sheet of paper. "Or perhaps your background equipped you to answer questions about the presence of that particular chemical cocktail in at least four bodies over the past six years."

"I don't know what – wait, four bodies?"

"Four confirmed."

John looked down at the paper which listed 'Classified' as two of his postings. Bugger. "Honestly there isn't much I can tell you."

"Not looking for details about your service, just whatever you can tell me about chemicals' purposes."

He wanted to refuse but if that regimen was being used outside terrorist interrogations… "The people, the ones with that in their bodies, what did they have in common?"

"Aside from being dead, you mean? Nothing we've been able to find other than the obvious," he said, pushing the case files across the desk.

John flipped open one file and then another and then a third. "These are not recent cases." He opened the fourth. "Ah. Our pretend Moriarty." He hesitated and then laid the identification photos side by side on the desk. They could have been brothers.

"Doctor?"

John started, realizing he'd probably been staring at the photos for too long. "Sorry?"

"Please, I'd appreciate anything you could tell me. Anything."

"Depending on the proportion and dosage of these drugs, it is possible to…create a new person as it were. The mind is in such a delicate state that – think of the human brain as a computer hard drive. If one has the skill, it is possible to overwrite all the data and programming and then reprogram the system with new information so it can be used for a purpose other than what it was originally intended."

"Brainwashing."

"Yes – and no. It can go far beyond the brainwashing clichés in the hands of people who know what they are doing."

"But why would the military – no, don't tell me, even if you can. I don't think I want to know." Lestrade frowned at the photos. "But…why these men?"

"Logically, if Murtaugh had been reprogrammed to become Moriarty, then one might infer than the others-"

"The others were also Moriarty." He looked a little sick. "But where is the real Moriarty?"

"That is the question, yes."

Lestrade began gathering the files. "Well, thank you for coming in. I do appreciate it."

John stood and prepared to leave. Just before opening the door, he said, "Oh, by the way--"

"We never had this conversation. You stopped in when I texted you looking for Sherlock."

With a smile, John headed out. A quick look at his watch showed he had just enough time for lunch before starting his shift at the clinic.

 

His third patient had just arrived when a text arrived.

JW  
GONE FOR 2 WKS  
PUT KIDNEYS IN FREEZER  
MAINTAIN ROUTINE!  
SH

WHY VISIT TO YARD?  
SH

John could only shake his head. Even in absentia, Sherlock was an unavoidable presence.

SH  
NO!! FREEZER IS FULL!  
JW

SH  
LESTRADE WONDERED  
WHY YOU IGNORED HIM  
TOLD HIM YOU'RE BUSY WITH  
PERSONAL PROJECT  
JW

MH  
TEXT FROM SHERLOCK  
NO DETAILS GIVEN  
SOUNDS NORMAL  
JW

JW  
WORLD IS ENDING  
MAY HAVE NEWS SOON  
MH

Huh. Did he mean Sherlock being normal was a sign of the apocalypse, or that the world really was ending?

 

The next four days left virtually no time to think about much other than patients for more than 14 hours a day. Two physicians and a nurse had gone down with the flu leaving the clinic short-staffed.

It was just shy of midnight of the fourth day by when he stumbled from the clinic and sat on the step to wait for a cab. He pulled out his mobile to check for missed messages and found the usual assortment of messages from Harry and even texts from a few mates who wondered why they hadn’t heard from him. He laughed at the text from Sherlock asking if John could save some sample of nasal discharge for further study. The day before, he’d asked for throat swabs.

He hit reply.

SH  
NO! NO! HELL NO!!  
JW

John started to send another text to ask where Sherlock was and when he’d be coming home, but decided it would be pointless exercise. He simply cancelled the text and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

He quickly looked up when a black car slowed to a stop in front of him.

"Of course," he muttered, getting up and walking toward the open door. He leaned in and eyed the lone occupant warily. "Look, it's been a long few days and I'm not up for any more cloak and dagger shite. Talk to me in the morning – but not before nine o'clock." He slammed the door shut and went over to the taxi that had just pulled up.

He needed answers. He needed food. He needed Sherlock to come home and Moriarty to be dead. Mostly, however, he needed sleep.

 

He dreamt of coffee. It was so real he could almost taste it. He was certainly able to smell it, which was peculiar since he generally didn't dream about food quite so vividly. Still, it made a pleasant change from the usual dreams of death and random body parts in the kitchen. And the longer this dream went on, the more real it became.

Coffee was beginning to seem like a really good idea, definitely worth waking up for.

He rolled to his back and stretched his entire body, groaning slightly as the muscles tightened and relaxed. He sighed contentedly, idly scratching his belly and slipping his fingers under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, feeling rested for the first time in longer than he could recall.

The scent of coffee permeated John's musings and he opened his eyes in surprise – and jumped back with a startled yelp at the sight of Mycroft's assistant standing there with a cup in her hand.

"Bloody hell! What – how did you – wait, never mind. What are you doing in my bedroom?" John was miffed to discover an impulse to pull the sheet up to his neck like some Victorian maiden.

"Your coffee, Doctor. It's 9:15. Mr. Holmes is waiting for you in the kitchen."

John's heart leapt at the first mention of Mr. Holmes, but obviously She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named (damn Sarah for leaving the Harry Potter books in the break room) was referring to her employer.

He accepted the cup offered and took a tentative sip of excellent coffee. "Look, uh, seeing as you're in my bedroom and I'm in bed, won't you tell me your name?"

She smiled. "Ten minutes, please. He hates to be kept waiting." And just like that he was alone in his room.

"Bloody Holmes'," he muttered, gulping down more coffee, burning his mouth in the process, before hurriedly dressing and going downstairs.

 

John pushed the remnants of breakfast aside and leaned against the table. "What precisely do you mean by 'no data'?" he asked, carefully restraining himself from yelling.

"I mean there is no data – anywhere."

"Schools keep records. In fact, in Sherlock's case there's probably an entire cabinet devoted to him."

Mycroft had a sour look on his face. "I'm certain there were tomes on the subject of Sherlock Holmes, but they no longer exist. The school burned down about 15 years ago – mere days before they were to transfer all records to computer." He pushed a file toward John. "An electrical fault, according to investigators quoted in the local paper."

John's head lifted and he stared at the other man speculatively. "Something happen to the actual investigator's report?"

Mycroft's smile was sickly. "Files were lost when they moved to a new building."

"I suppose they lost everything related to the death of that Carl boy, as well?"

"Too blurry to read – not even recovery specialists could make out more than the odd word here and there. And before you ask it was water damage from a malfunctioning sprinkler."

"Convenient, that."

"Indeed."

"So nothing left of Moriarty, then." John sat back, pondering this turn of events. "He's gone to great lengths to cover his tracks. I wonder what exactly he's trying to hide?"

Mycroft tutted. "The man is a master criminal, a murderer – who knows what else. I'd venture that's quite enough reason to hide."

"Well, yes, 'now', but that doesn't explain 'then' does it? I mean, everyone was a child at some point, but what precisely is in his background that he needed to go to such lengths to-to erase it – to erase himself?"

The stunned look on Mycroft's face was most gratifying to John, although he tried not to let it show. "So, any progress on Murtaugh, our fake Moriarty?"

Confirming he could find nothing out of the ordinary in Murtaugh's life – or that of the other Moriarty look-alikes, Mycroft got up to leave. He promised to contact John should he learn anything new or useful and handed over a set of keys. "Your security leaves something to be desired, John. So remember to lock up."

John closed the door behind Mycroft and noticed the new deadbolt locks. With a sigh he added one of the new keys to his own set and put the rest aside for Sherlock – whenever he finally returned.

The afternoon shift at the clinic proved to be blessedly calm after the madhouse of the past few days. During yet another lull in activity, John took his tea and retreated to his office to ponder the mystery that had become his life.

The lack of any real information on the dead men was not much of a surprise. Anyone who could make Sherlock jump through hoops – and be excited about it – was not going to leave an obvious trail of evidence.

Thinking about his discussions with Mycroft, John was rather surprised that the man had never mentioned the drug cocktail found in their tissue samples. According to Sherlock, Mycroft pretty much had access to any and all databases in the UK. The classified nature of John's file would not be too much of an obstacle if Mycroft really wanted to know what happened in Afghanistan, although he doubted even Mycroft could get the whole story. At least, he hoped not.

He took a meditative sip. Perhaps, that was the route to take; investigate the lab results rather than the men. The drugs were not readily available given that half of them were restricted as experimental and several others did not officially exist outside a military research facility.

He pulled out his mobile and sent a quick message off to a colleague suggesting a get-together after his shift. Freddie Corcoran was always up for a quick pint if he was spending the day in a lab.

He hadn't lied to Sherlock. Freddie had shipped out. However, it had only been for a few weeks and he'd called John to go for a few pints when he'd returned.

Freddie was much more useful to Her Majesty in the lab than in the field. John, on the other hand, had been more valuable in the field; his ability to compartmentalize giving him an advantage during the more unorthodox missions.

Still, their friendship was solid and he knew Freddie would be willing to share information – for the good of the Crown, of course. And, since Freddie had been the one to design the drugs and oversaw their production, he'd be the one to know if any had gone missing.

Satisfied that he now had an avenue to explore, John settled down to review patient files and catch up on paperwork.

 

John flinched when the clock chimed the quarter hour; 2:45, which meant he’d been pacing for almost an hour straight. Of course, he’d been doing so off and on since he’d returned home after meeting Freddie before he started pacing nonstop in earnest.

This was not good –so very not good. That any of those drugs had gone missing was too horrible to contemplate. And that the description of the person who’d taken them – he cut off that train of thought before it drove him mad.

Motion in his peripheral vision drew his attention and John whirled around, hand clutching the gun in his jacket pocket. There was no one there, of course; nor had there been the other half-dozen times he’d thought someone was sneaking up on him.

John wandered through the entire flat, double checking that the doors and windows were all locked and the windows covered. He pressed his ear to the door, but could not hear any movement. A quick peek through the blinds showed no movement in the street below.

How could Sherlock have become involved in this – how could he have betrayed John’s trust like this? Or was it betrayal? Perhaps he was being coerced somehow, forced to take part… Or even more likely – preferable – was that Freddie’s vague description combined with all the recent stress had played havoc with John’s mind. Yes, of course that was it – had to be – John was starting to make things up. Sleep, he needed sleep.

After yet another lap round the flat, he forced himself to stop and sit. He perched on the edge of his chair, hunched over and rocking himself slightly. John could not remember ever feeling so…anxious; he was filled with unrelenting dread.

“This is absurd,” he said to the skull sitting on the sofa. “I’ll be barking mad by morning if I don’t stop.” He took the skull’s silence for agreement and jumped back up. John quickly rooted through the cupboards until he found a small packet of one of Mrs. Hudson’s ‘soothers’ and put the kettle on.

Twenty minutes later, as panic tried to claw past the unnatural calm, John put it down to his extreme exhaustion that he didn’t immediately notice the distinctive aftertaste of the tea. His one experience of the drug when recruited to 'special projects' left a lasting impression.

Realization dawned slowly. It all made a horrible kind of sense, really, but it was too late to do anything about it. He was entering the preliminary stages of chemically induced personality breakdown.

The unusual anxiety of earlier was probably due to something slipped into his drink. Freddie? No, probably not…waiter, perhaps. And now the unnatural calm, although not enough to induce true susceptibility, he was fairly certain. A miscalculation of dosage, perhaps, or was this a deliberate under-use of the second drug?

Perhaps… oh, his head was spinning again, rather like that time on the rollercoaster – almost a pleasant separation of mind from body… John let go of the puzzle, no longer able to focus on the details.

Oh, Sherlock would be so disappointed, he thought as the world spun around him.

"Hush, John. Don't fight this – you're just making it more difficult on yourself."

Sherlock? He wanted to ask, but could not do more than make vague sounds.

Cool fingers trailed over his face, caressing, soothing. "Shh… you must listen, John. It's very important that you listen to me."

John struggled to open his eyes but to no avail.

"Listen," the familiar voice whispered into his ear, more breath than sound. "Pay attention, John, this is vitally important…"

 

Apparently it was time to flip the mattress again; he felt as though he were sleeping on a wooden floor. Obviously he wasn't going to get any more rest so he may as well get up. His first attempts resulted in a pounding head. Cripes, how much had he had to drink? And why would he be getting drunk when he had to work in the morning. Wait…what time was it?

He turned his head to see the clock and found himself staring at the underside of the sofa. He really was sleeping on the floor, then.

John dragged himself to a sitting position and tried to figure out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was meeting Freddie at the pub; things got a little hazy after that.

Levering himself to his feet, John started for the kitchen before deciding a shower would be more helpful. He always thought more clearly under the hot spray, not that Sherlock ever gave him time to…Sherlock? He dreamt of Sherlock…something disturbing.

With a shrug, John stripped down and immersed himself in the miracle that was hot water. He was almost done when he remembered details of his meeting with Freddie the night before. Quickly rinsing off, he hurried from the shower and went in search of his mobile. Who to contact first – Mycroft or Lestrade?

MH  
HAVE INFO RE M&S  
COME AT ONCE  
JW

GL  
MAY HAVE INFO  
PLS CALL  
JW

He'd barely pulled on his trousers when the door to the flat opened. He quickly pulled his service weapon and crept down to the kitchen – and sighed when he saw his guest.

"If you're not careful you'll get yourself killed one day," he said, engaging the safety and putting the gun down.

"Yes, well, life is uncertain," said Mycroft. His smile was tight, as though he'd just had a bit of unsweetened rhubarb pie. "I have information for you, as well, although I suspect we are actually on the same page as it were. Please finish dressing; we must hurry before it's too late."

No matter how persistent John was, Mycroft refused to reveal any details until they were in his car and pulling away from Baker Street.

Just as John opened his mouth to demand answers, Mycroft thrust a stack of photographs into his hands.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I don't understand…" his voice drifted off as he sifted through the photos, obvious stills taken from security footage. The quality was not the best but they clearly showed a tall man with dark curly hair prowling the halls of a lab – a military facility of some sort.

Dread coiled in his gut. He'd bet his last pound it was the research lab where Freddie worked. And the photos showed the man, who bore a shocking resemblance to Sherlock, breaking into one of the storage rooms.

 _"Lies, lies, lies – all lies."_

John looked up at Mycroft. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Mycroft looked at John in a fair imitation of sympathy. "I said I'm sorry. I know you and my brother have become…close. This must be very upsetting for you."

 _"Don't believe everything you see or hear, John. Use your head."_

John shook his head slightly, confused by hearing Sherlock's voice in his head. He looked back at the photos. "They don't actually show his face clearly," said John. But what the images did show was very precise – perhaps too precise. They looked almost staged.

"He knew about the cameras, obviously, and kept his face averted," said Mycroft. "But there is no doubt about the identity of the man in these photos."

Sherlock's voice whispered to him. _"How much does he really know about what is going on? Better to be thought a fool than to tip your hand."_

"Where were these taken? It looks like...a hospital maybe? Not St. Bart's though, at least I don't think so," said John, angling one of the pictures to get a better view. "Sherlock's always in and out of places, maybe these are old, you know, relating to something else."

Mycroft gathered the photos and placed them back in a large manila envelope. He studied John's face, looking for something although John didn't know what. Finally, Mycroft relaxed at bit although his expression of sorrow remained.

"They were taken at a drug research facility earlier this year."

"Drugs? Are you telling me Sherlock is using again – that he's been stealing from clinics?"

"In a manner of speaking." Mycroft seemed to gather his thoughts. "No matter how deep I dug, it was impossible to find any concrete information on James Moriarty. It's as though he didn't actually exist."

 _"Clever, give just enough fact to give credence to the whole."_

"You're saying Sherlock made up everything he told me."

"Not at all. There were undoubtedly bits of truth in it." Mycroft smiled his tight-lipped smile. "After all, it would be an easy matter to check the facts – especially for one with so many resources – so why risk outright lies?"

John had had enough. "Look, Mycroft, I've been worried sick about Sherlock and all this cryptic nonsense is not helping. If you know something, then spit it out."

"Did you never wonder why Moriarty has never been able to kill Sherlock? Or Sherlock to kill Moriarty for that matter?"

"Honestly, having survived a bomb set by a lunatic, I'm actually grateful that Sherlock hasn't been killed." John's voice hardened. "Get to the point."

"I have yet to determine exactly what research is being done at this particular facility," said Mycroft, waiving the envelope briefly, "however, one thing I am certain of is that Sherlock had no business being there."

John remained silent. _"Good, John, keep him talking until he gives you what you want." John silently told the Sherlock voice in his head to shut it._

"I would hazard a guess that whatever goes on there is somehow tied to the report of a mysterious chemical in the fake Moriarty's remains." Mycroft leaned forward. "And those of the other men Lestrade told you about, I believe."

"You're not making any sense," said John, keeping his voice calm even as he tried to work out the odds of jumping from the car without serious injury.

"Think about it, John. Sherlock and Moriarty--"

"No!"

"--are the same person. Think about it logically. Oh, use your head, John."

 _"Remember, the cool head has the answers buried in its useless brain."_

What? "I can't--" the ringing of their mobiles cut him off. John and Mycroft both reached for the phones. John's heart leapt, whether in fear or excitement he didn't know.

JW/MH  
HAVE FOUND SHERLOCK  
COME AT ONCE  
MY OFFICE  
GL

Mycroft, obviously having received the same message, instructed the driver to head for Scotland Yard. Mycroft spent the trip engaged in a rapid exchange of texts with someone. John sat back and tried to brace himself for whatever they might find.

Lestrade's voice was gentle as he talked to John. "No one saw him come in – nothing on security tapes for that matter. When I arrived he was there, just like he is now."

This couldn't be Sherlock, could it? He studied the dishevelled wretch in Lestrade's office. The man did not acknowledge them, just huddled on the floor in the corner, rocking back and forth, eyes glazed and staring at nothing.

 

Since finding Sherlock, everything seemed to pass in a blur. He had no idea how many hours passed until he stood in front of an observation window in the psych ward.

John heard voices around him but had stopped processing the information. They were wrong – Mycroft was wrong.

A hand settled on his shoulder, causing John to jump slightly, although he did not take his gaze from Sherlock's unnaturally still form.

"I'm sorry, John," said Lestrade. "I wish…fuck, I don't know what I wish. Will you be alright?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm fine. It's all…fine."

"Call me if you need anything. I mean that." With a final pat to John's shoulder, Lestrade left the observation area.

The smell of coffee finally pulled his attention away from Sherlock. Mycroft handed him a cup. "Come away for a bit, John. At least long enough to drink this."

John allowed himself to be manoeuvred to a nearby office. Of course it was empty; Mycroft Bloody Holmes wanted to use it. John obediently sat and stared into the cup, watching the steam rise and quickly dissipate.

Mycroft eventually broke the silence. "The doctor says he's completely catatonic."

"Yeah, got that." John took a sip. "I just don't – how did this happen, Mycroft? How does someone like Sherlock…I just don't understand."

"I don't think anyone does. This has been a long time coming." He reached across to rest a hand on John's arm. "Please, don't beat yourself up over this. John, even I had no idea and I've been cleaning up his messes for years."

"How did it start? I mean, something had to have triggered this insanity." He looked at Mycroft intently. "There must have been something."

"We'll probably never know for certain," said Mycroft. "The delusions just got stronger over the years. Perhaps it was the drug use that triggered some catastrophic failure in his mind."

"But still. To have made up a whole other person…"

"Children have been known to have imaginary friends, John."

"They don't generally survive to adulthood, though, do they – and they're not usually murdering criminal masterminds." John drained his cup and set it aside. "I can't get over it – any of it. That Sherlock was responsible for those deaths, the bombs… At the pool, I'd have sworn they'd never met."

"Sherlock was never an ordinary child." Mycroft sighed softly and handed him a file. "This is a summary of the various psychiatric exams over the years."

"Sherlock once told me he's a high-functioning sociopath," said John as he began perusing the notes. "I've never been entirely sure whether he was telling the truth or just having me on."

"A little of both, I'm afraid. He…his condition is much more complicated than that."

"Complicated. That's like describing something as interesting. It's meaningless and inaccurate."

John had to agree with his inner Sherlock. Something wasn't adding up. The report kept using words like 'multiple personality disorder', 'delusional' and 'psychotic break'. He closed the file and made to hand it back to Mycroft, but he just waved it away.

"I think you need to read it in detail and--" He broke off when his mobile rang. "I must take this. Please excuse me."

When he was gone, John got up and went back to the observation window. Sherlock hadn't moved, which wasn't surprising. John didn't know how long he stood there before Mycroft joined him.

"You need to rest, John. I'll take you home."

John felt lost at the moment, so all he did was nod. "Yeah, okay."

However, Mycroft was already down the hall, clearly expecting that John would follow. John began walking away from the window but looked back at the last minute, wanting – needing – a last glimpse of his friend.

He almost tripped over his own feet as his eyes met the familiar piercing gaze of a perfectly lucid Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock suddenly winked much as he had the day they first met and then averted his eyes, once again staring at nothing.

It all happened so quickly, John thought he'd imagined the whole thing.

On the way back to Baker Street, Mycroft tried to convince John to stay elsewhere, but John insisted. More than anything, he needed to be home, in familiar surroundings. Trying to rest in a strange place was just not on, not after everything he'd been through.

It happened while he was in his chair. His eyes were closed and he was almost nodding off when the Sherlock in his head started in on him.

"Don't just sit there, John. There's work to be done. I told you to listen. The cool head has the answers, remember – in its useless brain. Come on, John – work it out!"

John's eyes snapped open. He hesitantly got up and went to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took the head from its resting place and reached for fresh gloves. This was going to get messy.

Fifteen minutes later, the head had been emptied, and buried in the mess in the sink he found two sealed plastic bags. He picked one up to examine. It was a data stick. The other contained folded pieces of paper. He rinsed off the bags and set them on the counter before cleaning up the remains in the sink. Once the head had been bagged for the trash, he stripped off his surgical gloves, slipped the sealed bags in his pocket and took the bag out to the bin.

He kept to his evening routine until he could retire to his room at a reasonable hour. Fortunately, his laptop was already there.

John settled on his bed with the laptop and pulled out the bags. He hesitated a moment and decided on the data stick. There were three files, one labelled ‘In Case of Emergency’. He started with that, and suddenly felt light-headed when a video of Sherlock came up. He snatched up the earphones – in case someone was listening - and hit play.

“Before we go any further, John, I am sorry, more so than I can ever say. You were never meant to get hurt in any of this. I did my best to protect you, but…there are so many variables that it is possible you may still be at risk.”

John's first observation was that his friend looked exhausted, perhaps even on the verge of collapse. His second observation was that the recording had been done in John's room.

"The things I told you were not lies, well not as such, but the facts were…incomplete. James Moriarty died seven years ago – a fact of which I am now certain. These others, these pretenders, I feared they were Moriarty back from the dead. Now, of course, I understand what has happened – what has been happening."

John silently urged Sherlock to get to the bloody point. He'd had enough allusions and subterfuge to last a lifetime – and then some.

"I don't know how much time you have, so I'll give you the bare details you need to understand just how grave the situation is. John, what I told you about school was true – all of it. But I never saw Moriarty again after we left school, until... I'd heard rumours of course, one doesn't like to completely lose track of a dangerous rival. However…right, back to the point. The point is I knew he'd died. I killed him."

He stared at the screen in shock.

"Oh, don't look like that, John. Sometimes you are so predictable. Contacts told me he was dying – body was riddled with cancer as it turned out. I thought he wanted to make amends – completely out of character, but people in dire situations often behave in peculiar ways. It turns out my suspicions were correct; it was a trap. I saw it at once, of course, but he…he got caught up in the game and became trapped. I did nothing to help."

John wasn't quite sure where any of this was going, but this was the only contact he had with Sherlock now so he was determined to get as much from this as possible. Even if what he really wanted was to smack him and tell him to get to the point.

"The bloody prat who thought himself more intelligent, who tried to prove his great intellect, was done in by his own incompetence. Really, it was a kindness to leave him. I'm given to understand that death by cancer would have been most unpleasant, so in a way, I suppose it was an act of mercy… But it's not as though he were truly gone. You've met him, John. In fact, you've taken to talking to him yourself."

Surely he didn't mean...? John felt bile rise in his throat as he recalled casually handling the skull – handling Moriarty.

"Imagine my surprise when evidence began surfacing that Moriarty was back in business – and moving on from petty crime to extortion and murder for hire. Of course I hunted him – he was hunting me! It was what we did, for all I know it's what we will always do."

John really wished he'd taken a moment to grab something alcoholic for this. It might have helped make the mad rambling more coherent.

"As to the bombings – I swear to you John I did everything I could to stop him from – to keep you from being harmed. It was as though he was inside my head, privy to my every thought, every deduction." Sherlock's image leaned closer to the webcam, his face becoming slightly distorted by the proximity. "You are important to me, John Watson. And I will do anything – anything – to protect you. Even drug you."

Sherlock leaned back and rubbed hands over his face, perhaps to scrub away exhaustion.

"I used the drugs from the lab – I know you know about that – to place you in a suggestive state. I needed you – need you – to be open to possibilities. The fact that you are now watching this is evidence of my success. But John, I swear there were no modifications to your base psyche, merely a suggestion as to keeping an open mind."

"Bloody bastard," muttered John. He paused the video, torn between shutting off the recording and hearing the rest.

So Mycroft had been right about Sherlock. How could his friend – the man he'd thought was his friend – do that to him? And if Mycroft had been right about Sherlock stealing the drugs, what else was he right about?

But it still didn't make sense. The Sherlock he knew would never... John had to admit that perhaps he didn't know Sherlock as well as he'd thought. Still, a part of him clung to the hope that there was some logical explanation for what was going on. Hesitantly, he resumed the video.

"Please – hear me out. I'm certain Mycroft has told you that I've had some kind of psychotic break and have been creating my own arch-nemesis – creating version after version – in some twisted effort to keep an old feud going. But Moriarty was not my only rival. There was another, someone who resented my superior intellect. His pathological envy and jealousy compelled him to act on his anger.

"John, this person spent considerable time, energy and resources to take away whatever I had, whatever achievement or possession I claimed for myself. His campaign has been subtle, but deadly serious – and I mean that in the most literal sense."

John began to feel nauseous. He had a strong feeling he knew what was coming.

"I became suspicious with the second incarnation of Moriarty, but had no proof until recently. I broke into the lab – yes, the surveillance photo is real – and procured samples of the chemicals for tests. Once the results were confirmed, I went back to the lab but only took the small amount needed to ensure your cooperation. No, not cooperation, but your willingness to at least consider what I had to say.

"These past few months, this renewed battle with Moriarty – and by extension, whoever was pulling his strings – the stakes have been greater than at any other time. You, John, you are the prize, the stake in this game. You are mine, my friend, my blogger, my…valued companion. Because of this, Mycroft seeks to take you away. To kill me, to kill you if need be, but to have you as his own."

John shook his head. Surely this was just an insane rambling. Mycroft…he didn't view John like that…did he?"

"John, be assured Mycroft – my true nemesis – is only interested in possessing you, much as he would any other object he coveted. If I am a high-functioning sociopath, Mycroft is so very, very much worse."

Sherlock leaned forward once more, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Under no circumstances are you to reveal any of this to him, or to anyone. His influence reaches to places both high and low. And bear in mind that he is ruthless and, if necessary, he will use those drugs on you, break you down and rebuild you into his own companion. Have a care, John, I beg you. Don't accept any food or drink from him if at all possible. No doubt, he believes you distraught and will attempt to woo you to his side, but if he does not get the results he wants, the loyalty, then…”

Sherlock sat back.

"In the other bag is a list of contacts and safe houses. Mycroft does not know about any of these – yes, I am certain. It is my hope that you will choose a destination and go. Don't take anything with you, don’t contact anyone, just…disappear."

Sherlock suddenly got up and walked away, leaving the camera recording. He returned a few moments later.

"There is even less time than I'd hoped. Run, John - run as far and as fast as you can. Get to safety and I will come for you, protect you to the best of my ability. Stay away from Mycroft. I shudder to think what may happen if… Tell him what you must to give yourself time to get away. Please John, believe me – trust me. Remember Persephone; don't accept anything from him."

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes wild and his face horribly distorted by the angle. "No matter what happens, John, no matter where you go, I will find you. Mycroft will not have you."

The recording ended abruptly. John lifted a hand to close the laptop's cover and realized his hand was trembling. In fact, his entire body trembled.

What was he to do? This had to be a nightmare, surely…

The ringing of his mobile made him jump, almost tumbling the laptop onto the floor. He barely caught it in time. He reached for the phone and froze when he read the call display; it was blank. A few moments after the ringing stopped, his mobile chimed again; he had a text. Although there was no name, he knew it was Mycroft.

JW  
YOU NEED TO EAT  
JOIN ME FOR DINNER  
MH

With trembling fingers he sent his reply.

MH  
ANOTHER TIME?  
JUST NEED TO  
BE ALONE RIGHT NOW  
JW

The response was very quick in coming.

OF COURSE  
UNTIL TOMORROW  
MH

Mycroft was being very understanding, perhaps too understanding if Sherlock was telling the truth. But what if he wasn't? What if… Another message arrived and John opened it without thinking.

JW  
EAT, SLEEP  
CHOOSE  
SEE YOU SOON  
SH

 

\---END---

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you the gang at FicFinishing for the encouragement. Thank you to arueh my enthusiastic FirstReader who provided a lively running commentary as she read that spurred to me keep going. My heartfelt gratitude to my Betas selana1505 who caught those picky details I didn't see, and blue_eyed_1987 who britpicked this story and pointed out things that were unclear to anyone not inside my head. Thank you all!
> 
> Any remaining errors are mine since I am unable to post a story without last-minute tweaking.


End file.
